Apathy
by Andrivette
Summary: Kuwabara is to be trusted; and thus, the most precarious of friends. Light Kurama/Kuwabara


A clear, concise word; a carefully planned and internally deliberated outcome; the intentional withholding of certain information while other tidbits were pushed into play-

These were all things Kurama was familiar with. These things were natural - necessary, even, at times. Masks with their concealed intentions, priorities that drove him ahead of the pack.

Apathy.

Even now he cast his gaze through the café window, determining the exact location of the person he intended to meet before he even stepped inside and noiselessly, like the ghost of a whisper, slid into the seat opposite him.

"Kurama!" he greeted him, enthusiastic as always, but much more quietly than if he had spotted him across the room.

"Hello, Kuwabara."

Kurama smiled, as all had gone according to plan.

The man in front of him knew nothing of those sorts of plans. He was mostly if not altogether oblivious to the usage of ulterior motives, and as such, the entire spectrum of his emotions were set out at full display at every moment. He was naïve, careless, and so unbearably human.

"A mocha, please," he addressed the waitress. "Biology again, I take it?"

"Yeah, it's all this K and R strategist stuff and density factors." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "I keep getting them mixed up and I just don't get the difference."

"That's all right. I'll try to explain it in a more understandable manner."

They spent several afternoons this way, Kurama tutoring and Kuwabara tutored. The two of them shared few extracurricular interests, and this was the only time they usually had a feasible excuse to spend together. Kurama didn't mind it; Kuwabara was a quick learner when he heard things in layman's terms, and the moment when something finally clicked gave them both a gratifying sense of accomplishment. Sometimes the two of them would spend several hours covering a variety of material, but by the time the two of them walked outside after their typical exchange of Kuwabara's profuse thanks and Kurama's humble acceptance, the sun was still up, hanging an hour before it would disappear completely.

"Looks like we finished early," Kurama observed, smiling up at his companion.

"Heh, yeah." Kuwabara scratched the back of his head, a hint of pink flushing his cheeks. "That hasn't happened in a while, I guess, has it?"

"Perhaps we could go for a quick walk before you have to return home?" Kurama suggested. "You and I haven't had the opportunity to discuss anything but schoolwork for some time."

"Oh, uh, sure. I got time to kill, and it's not like I'm looking forward to havin' Sis bug me about what I learned anytime soon."

Shizuru had always been hard on him. That was her nature, Kurama supposed as he turned down the sidewalk and led them down the block. "Speaking of Shizuru, how is she lately?"

"Eh, pretty good between work and naggin' me, I think." He scuffed his shoe on the pavement. "She's got this admirer that brought her a flower to the salon once, but I dunno if she likes him or they're a thing or what."

"Oh?" Kurama grinned. "That's not too surprising. Your sister is a lovely woman, after all."

Kuwabara shrugged. "'Course she is. Just a pain in my butt sometimes."

"All good sisters are," said Kurama. "It's only because she-"

"Yeah, 'cause she cares about me and wants the best for me and all that junk. I know." Kurama paused, and it took several steps for Kuwabara to realize he had stopped walking. "What?" he asked, turning to face him.

"Is something the matter, Kuwabara?" Kurama took a couple steps forward to rejoin him, inspecting his face in a show of concern. Obvious worry was written in his features, worry that Kurama could pick up in an instant - worry that Kurama had noticed far earlier that afternoon, but had chosen not to speak of until now in the hope that the taller man would open up to him.

Kuwabara's face flushed again, his eyes darting away from Kurama's own probing gaze to stare at some vague point in the distance. "Is it that obvious?" he mumbled.

It always was. "I suppose it is."

Kuwabara blew a raspberry, laughing a little. "Guess I can't hide anything from you, can I? Figuring stuff out is what you're good at."

Kurama blinked at him in the silence, waiting.

"All right," he breathed. "I'll tell you, but let's keep walking so I don't feel all weird and serious about it." Kurama nodded, and the two of them returned to their leisurely pace down the street. "It's just, I dunno. It's Yukina, man."

"What about her?" Kurama urged.

Kuwabara's frown deepened. "I just don't feel like we get each other a lot of the time. It's not her fault or anything, I know that. It's just rough sometimes when I feel like we're not just not on the same page, but reading a totally different book or something."

"That may be an accurate analogy," Kurama agreed.

"Really? Why?"

"The ice maiden society is one comprised entirely of females, and they live very sheltered lives," he explained. "I'm sure Yukina has very little understanding of our society. She may be trying, but it could be a very long time before she fully grasps everything, especially the construction of gender roles."

Kuwabara's head hung low, and Kurama immediately regretted his words.

"I can tell she is fond of you, though, Kuwabara. You shouldn't feel dejected."

"Not like I am of her," he muttered back, and Kurama's heart clenched. It was strange how such simple, unfiltered emotion could breach his guard, could sneak in more easily than any cleverly devised trick, and it had no intention to abuse him at all.

"I'm sorry, Kuwabara," he said, and meant it earnestly.

Kuwabara shook his head with a smile, attempting to be tough despite the heartache Kurama could see - could feel - past the generally carefree exterior. "I guess I always knew, I just didn't wanna believe it, y'know?"

Kurama stared ahead, attempting and failing to hold back a melancholic chuckle.

"Why're you laughing?" Kuwabara asked, eyes widening defensively.

"I'm sorry. It's not because I find this funny at all." One glance told him Kuwabara was knitting his brows in confusion. "I just have a habit of laughing when I feel sad."

Kuwabara's confusion seemed to deepen even further. "You're sad?"

"For you," Kurama admitted, stopping all at once to gaze into his friend's unassuming eyes. Perhaps it was Kuwabara's pure, unfettered tenderness that made his humanity so unbearable; like a thick, sugary syrup, it consumed Kurama until he felt he could no longer breathe, helpless to escape.

This sort of humanity was the deadliest of traps, but one that Kurama had, perhaps, fallen into willingly - and like the ghost of a whisper, Kuwabara's tenderness swept away each layer until Kurama was apathetic no more.


End file.
